For A Price
by ShinkonoKokoro
Summary: John needs a date to the charity function now that he and Sarah are on the outs, so Mike steps in and gives John a number. He almost forgets about it until later. But decides to check it out.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: For the purposes of this fic, John is quite well off. _

* * *

><p>"John!" Mike Stamford waved to him as John's shoes clacked across the lobby floor.<p>

Sighing he turned and smiled. "Mike. What can I do for you?"

"Oh don't be like that! Word's got round you're planning on going solo to the charity ball?"

"What? Oh. Yes. Sarah and I just broke it off..."

Mike grinned. "I've got a secret!" He palmed a card into John's hand. "Call this number. They've come to my aid for more than a few dateless occasions. And everyone knows going dateless to a charity ball is social suicide. They'll make you do the announcements and raffle you off to the highest bidder, et cetera et cetera..." He winked and then was off.

John looked at the card, shook his head, and then stuffed it into his pocket where it sat, forgotten.

Until he did laundry that weekend and found it as he dug through his pockets. "Oh."

He set it aside for the moment. But once the wash was started, he called the number and quickly scrambled for a biro to write down the url being rattled off. He hung up and started up his laptop. John tapped his fingers patiently on the computer and then entered in the address to his browser. Then sighed. If it had been some sort of flashy site, he would have closed it all down immediately. Instead it was understated and classy with a dark green border and a list of occasions nicely bulleted in the centre. John selected 'social function' and read through the new list of chocies. 'Black-tie affair' seemed the most appropriate. Next page asked preferences. John shrugged to himself and said 'none.' The page melted away and neatly-bordered images flipped up onto the screen. 'Elaine' was too pouty. 'Georgia' looked like a wreck. 'Nielan' looked like a dominatrix. 'Sherlock' was a weird name. 'Sandra' reminded him of his grandmother. 'Beatrice' was too old for him. 'Taran' too young. 'Reese' looked like she couldn't hold a conversation about anything interesting. And 'Alex.' Well. 'Alex' looked like a man.

He sighed and flipped through the photos once more before picking 'Sherlock.' She looked intelligent and the perfect sort to hold her own in a cut-throat charity ball function. The page dissolved and a message appeared where he entered the time and address where the escort was supposed to meet him (his flat building), and then a delineation of rules and other information to protect both parties. Once he'd checked off that he'd read and accepted the terms, the screen changed and told him he was to pay the individual in cash, upon meeting. And then the amount appeared in a box in the middle of the screen.

Sighing at the amount, John figured it would be worth it for 8000 pounds, rather than taking a date out to dinner beforehand and then paying her cab back, or dealing with the hassle of going stag.

* * *

><p>He waited until the day of to go to the bank to withdraw the cash to pay the girl. Then did some shopping, organised his flat, showered, and got dressed. Sitting on his sofa, he tapped his toes and looked at his watch. 7:17. She would arrive at 7:30, and then the cab would take them to the hotel where the function started at 8. He picked up a magazine, flipping through it idly while he waited, sighing at 7:26, and collecting his keys, money clip, and jacket to go wait downstairs in the lobby. He paced back and forth until there was a knock at the door. He opened it and found himself staring at a neck. A neck that disappeared into the collar of a smooth button-down. That then disappeared into a fine jacket and tucked into a pair of fine slacks. All smoothed over a long torso, long arms, and very long legs.<p>

John blinked up at the face.

The man stared back, traces of amusement in the minute tilt of his lips. "John?"

"Yes?" he answered automatically, thinking if he knew this person. That was easy. "Do I..."

"Yes, you do pay me now." The resonate baritone curled around the corners of the hall.

"I."

Some of the light dimmed in the man's eyes. "You are John, yes?"

"I am. Are you...Sherlock?"

"Yes. Now he gets it." Sherlock, a _man_, leaned against the door frame. "Am I invited in, or are we to leave immediately?"

"We're leaving," John said then blinked again. "Shit."

"Problem?" The man said with an arch of his brow.

John knocked the heel of his palm against his forehead. "I thought you were a woman."

"Ah..." the man smirked and straightened. "Problem?"

"Fuck, too late to change now, I assume," John growled, digging in his trousers and handing over the money. "I can't go alone."

"Am I to still be your date?" Sherlock slipped the notes into a breast pocket inside his suit jacket.

"Yes," John said, pushing him lightly out the door before closing and locking it. "I can't go alone. You'll have to do."

"I'll have to do?"

John blinked and then shook his head. "I'm sorry. Terribly rude of me. I'm John Watson. A pleasure to meet you." He held out a hand as the taxi pulled up.

Sherlock blinked at him, face blank, before his lips curled up slightly. "Sherlock Holmes. A pleasure to meet you as well." And bent to kiss his cheek.

John sighed and opened the door, gesturing for Sherlock to enter before he slid into the seat and the car pulled away. He told the cabbie the address and then watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. The man was attractive. And with just a face, it wasn't too terribly difficult to mistake him for a woman.

"Former military?"

John started. "I beg your pardon?"

"You. You're former military." Sherlock leant an elbow on the window and looked John up and down.

"How d'you know?"

"The way you hold yourself. What's the occasion of the party?"

"Charity benefit for my boss."

"You hate them."

"Who doesn't?"

Sherlock snorted quietly.

"You...go to them often? With clients?"

"Once in a while," Sherlock replied vaguely.

John nodded and then returned to looking out the window, tugging at his tie.

"Here. Let me."

Sherlock reached over and pushed John's hands away, and with his own long fingers, he adjusted it for him. "This alright?" he murmured. "What sort of proximity are you comfortable with?"

John rolled his eyes. "I don't _care_ that you're a man. I just... had been expecting a woman."

"I look like a woman?"

John met his eyes—right. The eyes. They'd been a bit arrested in the headshot. "Your photo online does. You can't honestly be surprised."

"You didn't read my bio info," Sherlock said, pulling his hands back into his lap and looking a little surprised.

"I didn't realise I was looking at women _and_ men. No wonder that last one looked so much like a man..."

"So you don't know anything about me."

John frowned. "No. Is that a problem."

"No," Sherlock said with a smile he tried to hide behind his hand. "This will be fascinating."

John shook his head and chatted with him until the taxi pulled up to the kerb. He paid the fare and then held the door for Sherlock.

"Not necessary," he said, bending his mouth near John's ear.

"You're my date; I'll treat you as such," he replied stubbornly, settling his hand at the small of Sherlock's back.

Sherlock sighed as if put-upon, but his small grin told John he didn't mind.

John handed over his invitation and their coats at the door, pocketing the coat room stub and pausing with a sigh at the threshold of the large ballroom they'd rented out.

"You go every year. You're not nervous," Sherlock said, looking over his face. "But you normally don't work in an office, do you."

"You sound like you already know. They do a background check on me?" He met Sherlock's eyes.

"No. Sorry." He suddenly smiled a smile as fake as John's driving license photo.

"Oh don't do that."

"Sorry?"

"That..." He waved a hand in the direction of Sherlock's face. "Weird smile thing."

"Weird smile thing?" It disappeared.

"Yes. And no, I don't often work behind a desk. How'd you know?"

"Same way I knew you are former military. I observe."

"Could tell all that from just looking at me, hm?" John smiled and waved to Lucy from Assignments. Her eyes widened when she saw Sherlock and she mouthed something at him. Something obvious about how Sherlock was a man. He shrugged and then turned to Sherlock. "I'll get us drinks? What do you want?"

"I don't drink."

"Water."

"If you insist, John," Sherlock said, a slight purr to his voice. "I'll be fine if you leave me here."

He nodded and then went off in search of champaign and water. He held back the sigh. Because this was _definitely _not how he'd pictured his evening starting. He downed his bubbly and grabbed another and found water for Sherlock before he headed back towards him—bloody hell, was that his _arse_? John tilted his head and stared at it a bit before resuming his step and murmuring the man's name. "Water."

"Thank you, John."

"John! This charming fellow is your date?" Nancy fairly cooed.

John forced the smile. "Nancy. So lovely to see you."

"Of course. It's been...how long since I last saw you? You never stop by my office."

"Terribly sorry. Busy, you understand."

She forced the pout on her thin lips with too much lip liner and eye shadow too dark for someone her age. "Now, John. I really must insist that you stop by sometime, so we don't have to wait to meet at these things."

The smile felt stretched, but he was good at it. Flicking a glance at Sherlock, the corners of the man's eyes crinkled. Then Nancy's hand was on his bicep and she was leaning close to kiss his cheek. "Thank you, Nancy. Now Sherlock and I have to go say hello to Mike."

"Stamford?" Her brows flew up and lips turned down.

John's smile felt less forced. She didn't like Stamford. "Oh yes. He introduced us, after all." He tugged Sherlock closer, his hip awkwardly higher than John's.

Nancy blinked, smiled and then backed away. "Well come see me. When you're in the office..."

John guided Sherlock away and sighed.

"She seems...fond of you."

"Ha ha." He scowled at Sherlock. And then shuddered.

"Who is this Mike fellow?"

"Surprised you don't know him. He passed me the number to your service."

"We don't share names," Sherlock said flatly.

"Oh. Sorry. I don't know how...this...all works."

"Clearly."

"No need to be snide about it," John said, arm still wrapped around Sherlock's waist.

"Have we a cover story?"

"What?"

Sherlock tsked. "So we don't have to tell people that you're renting my time."

"Oh. Suppose I should, shouldn't I." He paused to say hello to one of the other people in Assignments.

By the time they'd moved away, Sherlock was squinting at him.

"What?"

"John, what is it exactly that you _do_."

"You can't tell?"

"Not enough evidence."

John grinned. "Good."

Sherlock's mouth fell open. "You're not going to tell me?"

"Classified. And I think easiest is best, isn't it?"

"What?"

"Cover story. Mike introduced us. No, I haven't ever brought a man as a date before, but..." He shrugged. "People will talk."

Sherlock hummed. "They do little else, most of the time."

John smiled and then they were talking to Mike. And after Mike, investors. After investors, bosses, and then an endless circuit of people.

"I don't believe you."

"What?" John looked up at him, rolling his neck.

"Your position being classified."

"Oh. That's fine," John said as he loosened his tie. "I'm ready to get out of here. You?"

Sherlock glanced at his watch. "You have me for another hour."

John nodded and headed to the coat room. "I'm never really expected to stay long as it is." He nodded to Frank and dug around in his pocket for his ticket. "Shit. Where is it."

Sherlock strode ahead of him and placed it on the counter, smirking over his shoulder at John.

"Pick-pocketing!" John's brows flew up. "Not a skill I'd have thought an escort to possess."

"Shh... You don't want to ruin your cover, do you?" Sherlock teased, leaning against the wall while the girl fetched their jackets.

John snorted.

"You would be surprised by how useful a skill it is to have."

"Mr. Watson?"

"Ah, yes. That would be me, thank. Sherlock," John held the big coat out for him.

"This would work better if you were taller."

"Or if you were shorter. Sorry nature didn't bless me with height like yourself."

Sherlock arched a brow at him but turned and slipped his hands into the arms before pulling it up over his shoulders. He waited expectantly while John buttoned his jacket and then accepted the offered arm with only a small sigh and a slight quirk of the lips.

"Just so you know," Sherlock said, studying his nails while John hailed a taxi. "I charge extra for sex."

"Yeah, the website said you had the liberty to do that. Oh come on! Do you not see me?" John scowled as the taxi passed him by.

"Perhaps someone with more...visibility should try."

"Go on!" John stepped back on the pavement and folded his arms to watch Sherlock. "Besides, I'm not interested."

Sherlock glanced at him, arm raised into the street. "Oh?"

John shrugged. "I needed a date."

"You are interested. I saw you watching me all night."

"Hello, Mr. Ego."

"You don't deny it."

"No. I just needed a date."

"If I were a wo—"

"It wouldn't matter if you were a woman. I'm just not interested."

The taxi pulled up and Sherlock got in first, still appraising John.

"What? Oh God. Now you think there's something wrong with me because I don't want sex. Oh. _Sorry_," John said to the driver before looking back at Sherlock. "There's nothing wrong with me," he said firmly, under his breath.

Lounging back, the image of confidence, Sherlock watched him some more. "So what do you plan to do with your hour?"

"Less than, now."

"Yes."

"You can go home if you want," John said, watching London pass by out the window.

"You're not one who throws away money. You spend carefully. Why throw away something you've paid for now? Is it because you're uncomfortable in my company once alone?"

John rolled his eyes at his reflection and sighed. "Fine. Come in for tea. Don't expect to be impressed by the amenities."

"I won't. You keep very few things. You move frequently, and I doubt I'll see much signs of 'home' about your flat."

"Thanks for that, Sherlock."

The man smiled. "It is what I do best."

"If that's true, then why do you do this?" He looked back at Sherlock, linking his fingers in his lap. "You're obviously very intelligent. You could probably do whatever you want."

"Pft. Boring." The long fingers waved the comment out of the air.

"So you're a high-class hooker instead."

"Careful, John, I might be insulted."

John grinned. "Somehow I didn't think you would be. Because you don't care."

"Ooh, interesting theory. Care to explain?"

"This is just something for fun." John looked him over. "You rarely do the sex, do you. Unless someone pays enough. And it's at your discretion. So this is just a chance to see different people. Keep life interesting."

Sherlock clapped softly. "Well done."

John blinked at the man, and, not finding any signs of a duplicitous meaning behind the words, felt pleased. "Right. So was that a yes to tea?"

"It would be inherently un-English for me to turn you down."

John snorted. He pulled out his clip as the taxi slowed, but Sherlock pushed his hand away and handed the money over instead. "Oh is that how it works?" He opened the door and scooted out. Sherlock unfolded himself after John and then moved to wait next to the door.

"Not usually."

"Taking pity on me?" John teased, getting his key out and opening the door, gesturing Sherlock in first. "Second floor, second door on the left."

Sherlock had his coat off by and over his arm by the time they reached John's door. "You can afford bigger than this," he said when John opened the door and gestured him inside again.

"Just because I can doesn't mean I want to," John hung his and Sherlock's jackets and then got the kettle out for tea. "Preference."

"Surprise me."

John smiled and reached into the back to pull out a rosemary tea he'd picked up in a shop in the Netherlands. "Do you take sugar?" he called at the sound of Sherlock settling himself on the sofa.

"Yes, thank you. Two cubes if you have them or two teaspoons."

John had the mugs ready and handed Sherlock's to him as he settled on the sofa next to him. "Surprise."

"What? Oh. Yes. What is it?"

"You mean you don't know?"

Sherlock snorted. "I may be smarter than average, but I do not know everything."

John grinned. "Rosemary. So you do this frequently? Play date to people for big events?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Surely my occupation is hardly so fascinating. Though I do admit: you're the first to take such an interest, not being squeamish about the less pleasant aspects of the job. No, I'd much rather know what you do."

"And I told you: classified."

"I don't believe you."

John shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "I don't care."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You're enjoying not telling me."

"Well done, you." By the time they'd bickered their way to the end of the hour, John was surprised to find he actually enjoyed the company of the other man.

But Sherlock broke the spell by glancing at his watch nearly on the hour.

"You have to be off then?"

Sherlock rose. "Yes. It appears our time is up."

John smiled and stood as well, eyes roving everywhere save for Sherlock now that the ease was broken. "Right. Well. Let me get your coat."

"Oh please. You don't have to be so awkward about it, John."

He hid his grin in his shoulder as he handed the man his coat. "Well. It was a pleasure to have your company for the evening. So. Thanks. For that."

"Of course," Sherlock purred. "Don't hesitated to call, should you need a date for a future function."

Opening the door, John waved and watched him down the stairs until he wasn't in view and then returned to his flat to collapse with a sigh on the sofa.

Back to life as usual. How dull.


	2. Chapter 2

Three assignments later, John was in position to take his target out when the communiqué came over his wire that there was a civilian in the mix being held hostage. Some clumsy berk had alerted the target that they were there, and now a civilian was in the way. John swore.

But he shifted his stance and lifted his gun, prepared for two shots instead of one, if need be. He went in, silent on his feet and almost laughed. Sherlock sat to the target's right on an ornate sofa, arms folded over his chest. His face was twisted in an expression of utter disdain and ennui, despite the gun trained on his temple.

"Leave it to you to cock things up," John said with a wide smile as he stepped into view, weapon steady. His target's head swivelled to him sharply, Sherlock's eyes merely flicking in his direction. Smart man. The corners of his mouth quirked.

"No wonder you didn't tell me; I should have guessed," Sherlock drawled.

"I was supposed to make this quiet, but..." John shrugged. "Hostage situations always make a mess of it. You his date?"

"Shut up!" Drexxler hissed, jabbing the gun against Sherlock's temple.

"You know, that _is_ painful."

"Yes, well I liked you until you opened that mouth of yours?"

John snorted and then shrugged at Sherlock's reproachful glance.

"And anyway. You needn't be concerned. He shoots me, you—" Drexxler screamed as a bullet tore through his right elbow.

Sherlock looked to John and raised his eyebrow. "Oh thank goodness. He was going to finish that with something terribly cliché along the lines of 'you'll be beyond the realm of pain,'" Sherlock mocked.

"So," John said, taking a few steps towards the moaning Drexxler. "How have you been?" Then shot the man in the head.

"Fine. Bored. Your life seems suddenly much more interesting." Sherlock only flinched when blood spattered lightly on his cheek and hand.

"Oops. Sorry." John handed him a handkerchief, quite impressed with the man's aplomb. "So much for shock then."

The other wiped his face and made a derisive noise. "Don't be ridiculous. It's hardly shocking, and once more, he deserved it. Besides." He parted his lips in a feral sort of grin. "Client dies on the job, I'm compensated for my trouble."

John laughed and then announced 'Bullseye' over his wife. "Well. Lovely to see you again, Sherlock. Take care of yourself and perhaps we'll meet again. He smiled, waved, and was gone before the man could say anything proper in response. No doubt he'd come up with a suitable lie for why his client was suddenly dead. Sherlock seemed quite capable in dealing with the shadier aspects of life.

He shook his head, cleaned himself up, removed gunpowder residue, and then went back to his office to fill out the paperwork. And chastise the idiot that resulted in the situation in the first place.

* * *

><p>The dark head jerked as his partner's head exploded across the table for him.<p>

John waited, watching through the scope.

Sherlock jumped to his feet, whirled around, flung the window open and leaned out, bellowing, "You could have fucking warned me!" then vanished from view.

John chuckled, then packed up his rifle, stowed it, and went to complete the report.

* * *

><p>The third time, John knew someone was pulling strings. Standing over the dead body with a bloodied knife, he levied a flat stare at Sherlock. "Thought you screened your clients."<p>

"Indeed," Sherlock said, pale eyes narrowed at the corpse. Then sighed and pulled out his mobile. "Mycroft," he snapped. "Stop feeding me clients. Immediately. Or I'll leek that picture of you as a child. _Yes_ the one when you were seven with the sweets."

John frowned at him.

Sherlock smiled sweetly, clearly feeling the opposite. "My brother. He's scheming something."

"Right well. Coffee? I have to go fill out paper work, and it's not my favourite activity."

"Stalling."

"Yes. As...as friends?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Fine. There's a place down the street."

'Down the street' apparently meant a cab ride three streets over. Sherlock tossed the man some bills and then exited the taxi, head high. A man on the pavement outside the café waved and smiled.

"Sherlock, darling!"

"Darling?" John drawled as he hurried to catch up with the other's long stride.

"He likes terms of endearment," Sherlock explained quietly. "Don't pay attention to it." Then louder, "Henri. Allo. Ca va?"

"Ca va, ma cher. What can I do for you?"

"Two cafés, one with two sugars and one plain. And..." Sherlock snuck a quick look at John. "And a muffin. Blueberry."

John blinked and quickly followed Sherlock to a table, sitting as Sherlock gestured.

"So. Contracted killer?" Sherlock said casually, fingering the edge of his scarf.

John arched a brow at him. "Really? You know better. Keep a hush mouth."

"Or you'll have to silence me?" Sherlock's grin was predatory.

Snorting, he leaned back in the chair and laced his fingers across his lap. "I think you want me to."

Staring at him a moment, Sherlock blinked, and then the smile became more real. "Hm."

John let the moment lie and picked up his coffee when it arrived, blowing on it a bit before taking a sip. He winced and set it down again to cool. "You mentioned your brother."

"Yes, Mycroft. Holmes, of course." Sherlock's eyes rolled and his lips tipped down.

"You don't like him." He didn't miss Sherlock's casual slip of his last name.

"Hate him," Sherlock said with that same predatory grin.

"How is he meddling?"

"He works in the government."

"Oh. Never heard of him. How is he meddling?"

"You wouldn't." Sherlock sipped delicately at his own coffee. "He's entrenched himself deeply and thoroughly. And I believe he's setting me up with these individual who have suddenly become your targets."

John frowned. "Your brother. A person with a wide range of influence apparently, is setting us up?"

Sherlock tossed his head. "Yes, big brother is playing matchmaker, it seems."

"Oh."

"Yes."

John took a bite of his muffin, thinking.

"Ask," Sherlock drawled.

"Do you happen to know why?" He leaned forwards on his elbows.

"However much I might pretend, the workings of my brother's mind are a mystery even to me some days."

"Okay, but you must have some inkling about his purposes."

"John, as much of a puzzle this is, I did not ask you out to talk about my brother."

"Fair enough. But if this is going to be a problem—"

"It's not a problem," Sherlock said wryly.

"No, but you see it _is_ a problem, if you're going to be in the middle of my work!" John said earnestly.

Sherlock straightened. "I _can_ take care of myself, John."

"Uh... Fine. I just mean—"

"No, no." Sherlock shook his head. "This obviously is going to be a problem. And," he said with a false smile as he stood. "We wouldn't want that."

"Wait. No. Sherlock. Now hold on!" He cursed lowly as his jacket got caught on the chair, and by the time he'd looked up again, Sherlock was gone. "You daft bastard..." John sighed and dug out his wallet to pay for the coffee when the waiter—Henri—came up to him and smiled.

"It is fine, Monsieur. It has been paid already."

John sighed again and made his way back to headquarters to make his report. And perhaps do some research into one Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

><p>Once John had exhausted all of the usual avenues for finding a person, he decided that the government data-bases were really the only option left for finding a person who didn't seem to exist. After spending another hour digging through the databases and finding, again, next to nothing, he sat back in his chair and sighed. The only information he was left with, at the end of the day, that didn't require higher clearance than his, was that there existed a Mycroft Holmes in the government. And his clearance rating was the highest that existed. There was no contact information, no personal information, and nothing else that John could use to research him.<p>

Even the Prime Minister had more information in the databases.

He grabbed his coat and headed home after picking up papers on a new target. Reading through the folio on the lift ride down to the main floor, John scrubbed at his eyes. Working alone on this one. The target was one Rosemary Morefeylt who was selling secrets. John hated killing the women. The only way she'd be without guard was at banquet honouring members of a society club. Great. More penguin suits.

* * *

><p>"Oh. Of course it's you," John said flatly when the words for an apology had been present on his tongue moments ago.<p>

Sherlock regained his balance by grabbing John's shoulder. "John."

"Please, _please_ tell me your date isn't Rosemary Morefeylt."

Sherlock's brows went up before his face returned to a blank mask of indifference. "This one going to die on me as well?"

Cursing under his breath he grabbed Sherlock's arm and hustled him down a side hallway and into a sitting room. He put a finger to his lips before shutting the door and checking places people might be listening. "I want you to know that I wasn't trying to insult you. Last time. This is exactly what I mean. Your brother—and let me tell you how much information there _isn't_ on him in the systems—is placing you in harm's way by putting you in these situations."

Sherlock really did look surprised this time.

"Doesn't he care about your safety at all?"

A beat of silence and then Sherlock laughed.

"I'm sorry. Am I missing something?" John said, a stab of irritation going through him.

"John, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, as I have said before. Now, as I hate repeating myself, I'll not say it again. So while your concern is undoubtedly touching, you needn't worry."

Suppressing the growl of frustration, John instead settled for tearing at his hair. "I _kill_ people, Sherlock. Shoot them. Strangle them. Poison them. And _you_ are getting caught up in the middle of it! I don't want you to be caught in the crossfire! Do you understand?"

The other man frowned at him, brow furrowing. "You're worried for my safety."

"_Yes_!" He dropped his hands, glad he finally understood.

"Because you care?"

"Yes!" Then snapped his mouth shut. "Oh."

"Oh?"

"I...do care."

"That's the only thing that makes sense."

"It is, isn't it..." The knots that started to tie up dissembled before they really had a chance to start.

Sherlock smiled. "Would you like help?"

"I'm sorry, _what_?"

"With your target. Would you like _help_?"

John gaped.

"How are you planning on killing her?"

"Uh. Poison."

"Let me help you."

"Wow, that's not against any and all rules we've got."

"You don't mind breaking rules. You should have killed me that first day."

"Mm." He folded his arms and tapped a foot, thinking quickly. Then shrugged. "Sure."

"Excellent. You really are an excellent killer."

"I think that's supposed to be a compliment."

"Of course, John. No one would ever suspect you."

"Thanks," he drawled wryly.

"Perfect. Now let me get drinks for myself and my date." Sherlock was gone through the door with another wicked grin that excited something down John's spine.

He grinned and followed after, fingering the pill in his pocket that would dissolve and not taste like anything.

* * *

><p>When Sherlock staged the fight with his client, he stormed off, pale eyes flashing at John on the way out. John slipped out the back door and met Sherlock outside. He was leaning casually against a building, smoking a cigarette. He was surprised by the thought that ran through his head: perfect.<p>

"Well, she'll be dead by morning."

"Slow acting?" Sherlock asked, flicking his eyes in John's direction as he thumped against the wall next to Sherlock.

"Mm. It'll look like a heart-attack."

"Fascinating."

"You really like this stuff?" John asked, looking up at him.

"It's interesting."

"More interesting than your job being a rent boy?"

"High class call girl, John; honestly."

They stared at one another a moment and then snickered.

"Oh fuck."

John looked around, immediately on alert. "What?"

"My brother."

"Where?" He followed Sherlock's gaze to the black car that was slowing at the kerb across the street. "In the car."

Sighing, Sherlock straightened, flicked the cigarette away and lit a fresh one.

"Let me guess, he hates your smoking?"

He started walking across the street. "He hates it. Come along, John."

"Do I want to meet him?"

"No."

"I'm going to anyway."

"Yes."

The door opened as they approached and Sherlock slid right in, beckoning for John to follow. Scooting in next to him, John kept his expression flat, despite the fact that he was impressed by the subtle opulence of the vehicle and the suit that the man across from them wore.

"Sherlock. Captain John Watson."

"Mycroft Holmes," he said coolly with a nod, shutting the door behind him. The car started moving as soon as he did.

"Oh come. Let's be cordial," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Sherlock lounged next to him, puffing smoke into the air.

Mycroft sighed patiently and rolled the window down. "You'll never be able to run long distances if you keep that up."

"That's why I have you, haven't I?" Sherlock said.

"Nonsense. I've come to offer you a job."

"Well, that's preposterous. We both have them."

"Sherlock, don't be infantile. You hate yours, and Captain, this doesn't play to your strong suits."

"Which would be?"

Mycroft smiled again. "Not desk work half the time."

"And?"

"And, I'd like to offer you field work. Full time."

"That's nice."

"With Sherlock as your partner."

John blinked, looked quickly at Sherlock who, despite his languor, had perked up to listen. "Explain."

"Sherlock has notoriously made poor decisions in his professions. This will hold his interest and perhaps be better tailored to his inclinations."

"You're saying your brother should be a killer."

"No. You, Captain, are the killer. My brother would be a skillful ally in hiding any evidence of your involvement."

"Why," Sherlock snapped, blowing his smoke in Mycroft's direction.

"I tire of you parsing our name out in whoring, Sherlock. It's hardly dignified. And hardly worthwhile. This, at least, you'll be aiding your country. And you'll keep yourself out of self-inflicted trouble."

Sherlock dropped his eyes, leaning back. "And if I say no?"

"You won't?"

"Why is that?"

"Because the good Captain will say 'yes,' and you're terribly intrigued. Wondering if you're good enough for the task. And you fancy the Captain, do you not?"

The comment drew John's attention away from weighing pros and cons in his head. Sherlock said nothing.

"It's perfectly reasonable. He is smart, capable, and—"

"Shut _up,_ Mycroft." Sherlock looked at John. "If you took this position, I would come along with you. I would presume to say that it would involve the two of us spending a lot of time together. Would you object."

John smiled. "I'd like you to come along. I imagine I could silence you any time I want then?"

Sherlock's eyes widened a bit, but he grinned quickly. "Yes. Yes, I should think so."

John looked at Mycroft who wore a minuscule frown indicating he'd missed the meaning. "Who would I be reporting to?"

"Me."

"You."

"Yes." Mycroft shifted his grip on the umbrella across his lap. "Problem?"

"No. No middlemen?"

"Weakens security. Don't worry. I'll communicate where we're to meet. Or you could always send Sherlock. He knows how to find me. And I can always find you, if need be."

"Brilliant," John muttered to himself. "Fine. Should I put in my resignation a—"

"Already taken care of." Mycroft reached to the seat next to him and picked up two folders, handing one to John, Sherlock grabbing the other. "Your first assignment, gentlemen. Fortunately, there are no shortages to men who think that they can infiltrate the government, threaten, murder, steal, rape, and generally do bad things."

John read through the file, curling his lip at some of the things the new target had done, the photos of torture. "So I suppose we're starting immediately?"

"If you please."

"And we'll have free reign to do this however we like?"

"Quite. So long as it doesn't require me to cover for you. I shan't like doing that."

"We catch your meaning, Mycroft," Sherlock said with a snort. "Fine. We'll do your dirty work."

"Excellent. I took the liberty of finding you a place for when work is slow. I've moved your things, Captain Watson, and yours, Sherlock."

Sherlock sat forward, puffed like a wet cat. "What! You—"

"I assure you, you'll like it better than that posh place you used for entertaining." His lip curled on the last word, making it into something distasteful." He smiled as the car stopped. "We're here."

Sherlock curled a lip.

Sighing, John pushed the door open and got out before bending to look back into the vehicle. "We'll talk about it before we sign any agreements."

"Of course. Very prudent. Don't worry about the rent, Captain Watson. You'll be reimbursed appropriately," Mycroft said, handing him another folder. "All of the paperwork and terms are here. Take all the time you need."

"By which he means tomorrow morning," Sherlock grumbled, getting out under John's arm. "Really, Mycroft. What a dump. Come on, John."

John kept Mycroft's gaze a moment longer before shutting the door and following Sherlock to the building and inside.

"Hallo! Hallo, boys! I'm Mrs. Hudson. I'll be your landlady," a small woman said brightly, hurrying towards them. "You're just up the stairs. Come on then!"

He had to chuckle under his breath. This was ridiculous. Sherlock looked back at him, leading the way up the stairs after Mrs. Hudson, and gave him a small smile. John was going to sign that contract. And if he was, and Mycroft was right about how much Sherlock wanted to be around him, then Sherlock would too. His grin widened, mirrored by Sherlock's widening eyes and then spread grin.

* * *

><p>Trudging up the stairs with their bags, John grumbled nonsense in Sherlock's direction for lack of anything more intelligent to say.<p>

"Wait!" Sherlock said under his breath, grabbing his arm. "Wait. Someone's here."

Looking for the first time, John noticed all the signs too. He thrust one of their bags in Sherlock's direction and pulled out his gun. He grumbled more nonsense to keep the noise and let the person inside think that he'd gotten the drop on them. John pushed open the door and flung the bag inside before rolling in himself. He came up on his knees behind the arm chair, weapon ready. Then sighed. "Mycroft."

Sherlock blustered in, glaring at his brother. "I would think someone of your intelligence would know better than to break into the flat of two killers."

Mycroft tutted. "You're not much of a killer, Sherlock. John does all the dirty work. Besides. You knew it was me; you just like to see John in action." His grin was anything but polite.

"Excellent deduction. Now leave." Sherlock took his coat off and accepted John's when handed to him.

"I've come to give you year-end bonuses. You've been _so_ effective these four months. I've had offers from all over, people wanting to borrow you..."

John snorted. "Tea?"

"No," Sherlock answered for him. "He's not staying long."

"Alright."

Mycroft removed an envelope from his jacket and set it on the coffee table. "Next assignment, and the receipt for your bonus. It has, of course, been deposited. And John, I'm quite impressed. You've succeeded in ending my brother's nasty smoking habit where everyone else has failed. You truly are special."

John looked at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye and then shrugged, saying nothing. Apparently all it took was for him to care enough about what the person he was kissing thought. "Yes well. Thank you. Mycroft. I'm dreadfully sorry, but it _was_ a tedious flight from Odessa. We'd like to unpack and get some rest, if you don't mind."

"Of course, of course." Mycroft stood, umbrella tapping against the outer edge of his shoe. "We'll be in touch."

"Of course."

Mycroft left, and no sooner had John turned to the kitchen then Sherlock fell upon him like a man starved.

Spluttering, John fended him off. "Come on! After we kip. I'm knackered."

"Yes, but _John_," Sherlock purred, arms locking around his waist.

"Oh stop it. You just like it when I stand up to your brother."

Sherlock grinned. "Perhaps."

"That's a sick turn-on."

"You like it when I'm covered in blood," Sherlock countered.

"So long as it's not your own? Sometimes." He groaned as Sherlock pressed his hips forward. "Stop it. Sleep!"

Bending with a sweet smile, Sherlock pressed his lips to the shell of John's ear. "I don't want sleep yet."

Pushing him off gently, John huffed. "You're incorrigible."

"Quite." Sherlock grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards the bedroom.

And John let him.


End file.
